


sentimental value

by roboticdragons



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Character Death, Gen, Infection, Sad Ending, oopsie doopsie my first hk fic is angsty and melodramatic anyways quirrel's my waifu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 02:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16379861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticdragons/pseuds/roboticdragons
Summary: Ghost can't find their 'friend'.Only a lone nail resting on the City's bench remains.





	sentimental value

**Author's Note:**

> look i know this is really short and kinda badly written.
> 
> but hey i liked this idea so shut up writing is my passion

The nail meant nothing.

There was surely no subtle implication to the lone weapon, carely lain on its side on a certain balcony, resting in the City of Tears. Sat by a bench, just like its owner had mere hours ago (days ago? Time affected neither their shell nor void, and so meant little to nothing), left to listen to the raindrops.

The nail’s owner was nowhere to be seen. The vessel considered that fact. 

Infection still raged, and with the Crossroads swept up into that orange mess the number of reasonably safe places was dwindling, and fast. A weapon was necessary to survive, unless you were particularly skilled at running or hiding. Without a nail, Quirrel was in deep, deep danger.

The vessel considered that conclusion, and something deep in its shell stirred and writhed and morphed into a Thing that, in some other bug, could be recognised as worry, concern perhaps. They weren’t extremely close to the bug, but felt as friendly toward him as an empty vessel was able to.

Ghost sat down on the bench, next to the nail, and slept. Dreamt, maybe. Tried to think of what,to do next. Find Quirrel? Was it worth it? What was ever ‘worth it’ down in this shell of a city?

By the end of their rest a plan had been made; with so much lost down here, they might as well attempt to save whoever they could. Emotional capability or reasoning be damned.

 

\---------------------------

 

No masked ‘friend’ in the Fungal Wastes. Nor in the Mantis Village or Deepnest or the City’s towers, or staring into the Abyss or visiting Dirtmouth. Everyone they asked - though there were not many left to ask - knew nothing. That Thing in his shell that could be concerned-worry was twisting in on itself. Metamorphosing into a deep panic and terror. Only Fog Canyon was left, the place Ghost was more hesitant to go. The Traitor Mantises had been creeping further and further out of the Queen’s Gardens, and Ghost had hoped (or something similar, slightly emptier than hoped) Quirrel was smart enough to see that danger and avoid it.

Evidently not.

The Teacher’s Archives could be a good place to start. Quirrel was connected the dreamer that used to sleep there, maybe sentiment had drawn him back again.

That writhing-twisting-screeching panic Thing thrashed inside Ghost’s shell.

The Archives were crawling with swollen orange blobs.

They crept through, slashing severely infected Uomas left and right and really hoping sentiment hadn’t been driving Quirrel’s actions.

Every room just held Oomas and Uomas and Lumaflies, all newly glowing with as sick orange light. The room that used to contain the guardian Uumuu was completely overrun with the blobs. The entire Archive was overtaken.

Well, every room except one.

Monomon’s resting place was weirdly barren of the telltale orange. Only one figure was in the room, knelt in a pose almost similar to praying, before Monomon’s ‘grave’. Relief, wariness, and still that worm of panic - more emotions than Ghost was used to experiencing. 

They stepped forward. An echo broke the grave-site’s silence. Quirrel didn’t react. His back was still facing Ghost.

Another step. Another echo. He wasn’t usually this quiet.

Ghost took the final step and Quirrel turned around.

Ah. They realised now, why nothing seemed off.

The infection hadn’t chosen to show itself in Quirrel’s back - instead the orange blobs has burst from his chest, legs and face. The face was what stirred Ghost’s ‘emotions’ the most. Tendrils crept out from underneath his hood and into his eyes, out of chest again and draping down. It was like a crude copy of Monomon’s tentacles Ghost had seen in the dream, except these was malformed and mangled and in all the wrong places. Each eye contains a single orange drop of light. That was somehow emptier than his usually black eyes.

The corpse that, at some point, had been Quirrel staggered forward. His tentacles waved half-heartedly and tried to support him under the swollen legs, but failed. Ghost drew their nail. The panic morphed again into something like sadness, and a little bit of calm. It was simple now. Quirrel was gone and couldn’t feel anymore, so the best thing to do would be to free him of the infection.

The corpse kept crawling forward.

Ghost flicked their nail, and he stopped crawling.


End file.
